


A Kiss of Death

by cozywilde



Series: Smoochtober [30]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Begging, Bondage, Breathplay, Cuddling & Snuggling, Grinding, Kissing, Knifeplay, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 05:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cozywilde/pseuds/cozywilde
Summary: Senkar and Cyrus like to play dangerous games.





	A Kiss of Death

**Author's Note:**

> [Senkar](https://toyhou.se/3281147.senkar), a charming assassin-for-hire  
[Cyrus](https://toyhou.se/3870644.cyrus), a gruff (but rather softhearted) bartender

“Now, now, Cyrus, look at me,” Senkar purrs, his blade a delicate extension of his hand that he uses to tip Cyrus’ chin up. “You know it’s no fun for me if I can’t see how desperate you are.” Perched in Cyrus’ lap, only a great deal of practice lets Senkar keep the knife steady at Cyrus’ throat, a sharp, dangerous pressure that nonetheless doesn’t pierce his skin. 

“There, that’s better,” Senkar says approvingly, when Cyrus’ hazy eyes meet his. It’s delicious, seeing that sharp icy blue clouded with a truly tortured lust, and Senkar allows himself a quick roll of his hips against Cyrus’ stomach, moaning indulgently. 

Cyrus whines, arms straining against his bindings. Senkar smirks; he knows he’s dying to touch, dying to get Senkar out of his clothes and really  _ feel  _ him, but that isn’t the game tonight. No, tonight’s about what Senkar can do to Cyrus, how close he can walk him to the edge, and that tantalizing bit of fear Cyrus holds onto that Senkar might actually push him over. 

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Cyrus,” Senkar says, tucking the knife back into his sleeve. Cyrus shudders and relaxes a hair when it’s out of sight. Silly of him. Senkar hardly needs a knife to be dangerous, to be deadly. He trails a hand up Cyrus’ chest, skimming around the delicate cuts he’s left there, before his fingers curl loosely around Cyrus’ neck. 

And oh yes, that’s reminder enough. Cyrus’ breath comes quicker at the threat that Senkar might cut it off, pulse rabbit-fast under Senkar’s fingers. Paradoxically, his hips twitch up, and Senkar glances over his shoulder to watch Cyrus’ dick jerk, dripping a mess of precome and flushed an angry red from the almost-climax Senkar has long denied him. It’s a lovely sight. 

When he turns back Senkar is very much the cat who got the canary, though he still finds himself missing Cyrus’ voice. He pets the base of Cyrus’ neck, a gentle touch right over the edge of his lizard tattoo. “Cyrus. Cat got your tongue?” 

“...More like a viper,” Cyrus says, voice rough, but it makes Senkar smile, knife-sharp. If Cyrus is coherent enough to call him names, he’s fine to keep going. 

“A viper?” Senkar says sweetly. “I don’t think I’ve bitten you. Something I should rectify?” 

“A kitten, then,” Cyrus amends. “With little razor claws.” Senkar laughs and runs the nails of his other hand down Cyrus’ chest, dodging the cuts but making sure he hits his nipple. It makes Cyrus hiss, swearing under his breath. 

“If you don’t like my claws you can ask me to stop,” Senkar suggests, and runs his nails over Cyrus’ other nipple, pinching and tugging. 

_ “Fuck,”  _ Cyrus groans, and the ropes around his arms creak ominously - or maybe that’s the chair. Still no begging, though, and now Senkar’s rather set on it. 

He sits back a little, leaving the hand at Cyrus’ throat but resting the other on the more neutral territory of his shoulder. “As cute as your noises are, Cyrus, I think I want to hear you beg. What do you want, hm?” 

Cyrus just looks at him for a minute, chest heaving. Senkar is content to take in the view, pink flush and abused red nipples and the vivid crimson of blood. He really is an exquisite artist, if he says so himself. 

“...or what?” 

Senkar actually laughs again. Cyrus is so  _ funny  _ tonight. “Are you being bratty? With  _ me?”  _

The glint in Cyrus’ eyes says he absolutely is. “Yeah, so what’re you gonna do about it?” 

Senkar’s other hand joins the first at Cyrus’ throat in a flash, squeezing warningly. “That answer enough?” 

Cyrus bites his lip, head tilting back. To anyone else it would look like he’s trying to pull away, but no - he’s leaning  _ into  _ Senkar’s hands, baring his throat for him. Senkar leans back just as smoothly, keeping the pressure how _he_ wants it. 

“Naughty,” he scolds, smirking. “You beg me for what you want, or you don’t get it.” 

Cyrus growls, but it’s all he can do - he’s reached the end of his literal ropes, shoulders straining against the bindings. Senkar shifts back a crucial inch, letting Cyrus’ dick rub against his ass to get him shuddering and whining again. He only gives him that brief touch before he balances over Cyrus’ lap again, watching his hips jerk up in futile chase of pleasure. 

“Still not hearing any begging,” Senkar says. Not that Cyrus isn’t putting on a wonderful show anyway, all bitten-back groans and trembling muscles. He tilts his own hips forward to rub against Cyrus’ belly again, letting his own moans spill out as loud as he pleases. 

Loud enough that he nearly misses Cyrus’ first shaky, strained “please”. 

“Oh? What was that?” Senkar stills himself, crowding in close to Cyrus’ face. 

“Please, fuck… just choke me already,” Cyrus groans. 

Senkar tilts his head, considering. “I like the ‘please’, but the rest could use some work.” He does steady himself, hands squeezing just a bit around Cyrus’ neck in reward. 

“S-Senkar… fuck,” Cyrus gasps, eyes already fluttering half-closed at just that little bit of pressure. “I need it, please,  _ please  _ choke me, I’ll do anything…!” 

_ “Good,”  _ Senkar says, and starts to tighten his fingers in careful increments, pressing into the blood vessels in Cyrus’ neck. He rests his forehead against Cyrus’, watching his eyes start to lose focus, breath coming in quick, frantic puffs against Senkar’s lips. He backs off the pressure at the same moment he rocks back against Cyrus’ dick, pushing a wheezy cry of pleasure from his throat. Gods, he’s beautiful like this, totally uninhibited and completely Senkar’s, down to his very breath. 

Senkar presses his lips to Cyrus’ as he tightens his grip again, coaxing his mouth to open with a clever flick of his tongue and catching Cyrus’ groan in his own. He seals their mouths together as he squeezes Cyrus’ throat, denying him any breath he might have snatched between his moans. Cyrus’ heart pounds, frantic; his body jerks once, twice, and then sags loosely in his bonds, utterly spent. 

“Oh, Cyrus,” Senkar croons, pulling back, hands trailing gently down to massage Cyrus’ shoulders. “That was quite the show.” He checks Cyrus’ pulse, then his breathing. Both are slow, steady now. Red marks bloom on his neck, but Senkar knows his work well, and the worst Cyrus will suffer is a sore throat. 

Senkar has plenty of time to clean up before Cyrus stirs, which is good, since he is unfailingly difficult about it. First, the ropes - which he has to cut, since Cyrus pulled them too tight to untie yet again - then the cuts on his chest, carefully wiped clean and bandaged. Then, of course, the absolute mess of Cyrus’ come. Senkar’s pants are a lost cause. He just tosses them in the corner, and follows them with his shirt, boots, and knives (though those are carefully placed rather than thrown). Kneeling between Cyrus’ knees with a washcloth is when he comes to, blinking blearily down at Senkar as if wondering how he got there.

“...Senkar?” 

“Thank goodness, I had no idea how I was going to carry you to bed if you hadn’t woken up soon,” Senkar says, wiping down one of Cyrus’ thighs. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Cyrus says, and Senkar rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to, and I’m almost done,” he says. Cyrus is about to protest, he can see it in his eyes, so he moves on to rub gently at the tip of Cyrus’ dick. That makes him jerk and bite his lip, still sensitive, and more importantly  _ quiet  _ until Senkar’s done. 

He stands and stretches, unselfconscious. Even then he’s able to quickly sidestep Cyrus’ reaching hand, slow and shaky as it is. He has  _ got  _ to find a better way to tie him down so he stops cutting off all his damn circulation every time. 

“Come on, to bed with you,” Senkar says, grabbing Cyrus’ arm in a move that both lets him tug Cyrus towards the bed and rub some feeling back into it. The cross-hatched bruises will be lovely to look at, but not if Cyrus’ arm atrophies and falls off. 

Cyrus must be tired, because he actually follows with only a minor protest of “Did you even come?” 

Senkar pushes him into the bed before he bothers answering, scooting in beside him and letting Cyrus throw an arm over him. “It’s not always about coming, Cyrus,” he says. 

“But I got to -” 

“Yes, you got to come, and I got to cut you and choke you and make you beg,” Senkar says plainly. “Now shh, some of us need our beauty sleep.” He hesitates, then adds, “You can always make me come in the morning.” 

He doesn’t always stay - he can’t, in his line of work - but he knows how Cyrus feels about him slipping out in the dead of night. And, conversely, how relaxed happiness seeps into his muscles at even that passing assurance that Senkar will be there in the morning. 

Cyrus pulls him closer, breaths already slowing as he approaches sleep. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

Senkar rests a hand on his arm, and waits until Cyrus is truly under before he says, “No, thank you.” 


End file.
